


Stand Here With Me

by aguantare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five minutes into the first match of the season, one of Sunderland’s defenders goes right through the back of Niall’s legs to get at the ball. The ref either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care, and from his vantage point back near the edge of their own 18 yard box, Zayn sees Niall press his hand against a spot just above his right ankle before he picks himself up from where he’s sprawled across the pitch. Football AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand Here With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Been chipping away at that wall called Writer's Block ever since exams ended, hence being AWOL. Finally managed to finish something, so here it is. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Five minutes into the first match of the season, one of Sunderland’s defenders goes right through the back of Niall’s legs to get at the ball. The ref either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care, and from his vantage point back near the edge of their own 18 yard box, Zayn sees Niall press his hand against a spot just above his right ankle before he picks himself up from where he’s sprawled across the pitch. Sunderland are bearing down the left wing now so Zayn doesn’t have time to double check the number on the defender who put Niall on the ground, but he thinks it was #6. He stores that bit of information away for later, and tracks his mark back inside the box, grapples furiously with him as the cross whips in. His curses when Zayn gets a foot the ball before him are like music to Zayn’s ears.

Two minutes later, Niall gets a couple inches of space inside the box on a corner. It’s a war zone inside the box, just like always, but Zayn happens to be looking directly at Niall when he sees the vicious elbow #6 throws into Niall’s ribs as they both leap to challenge for the header. Zayn’s fairly certain a hit like that would have 80% of the guys out here crumpled up and crying for a medic, but Niall’s always been tough as nails, tougher than pretty much anyone else Zayn knows. He sort of bends over for a second, arm wrapped around his torso, unnaturally still in the midst of the corner kick dog fight that’s happening around him.

And then he straightens up and sort of shrugs his shoulders, like he can just shrug away the pain, and jogs back to draw even with Sunderland’s defensive line so he’s not offsides. His face is calm, almost placid, like he didn’t just get sucker punched by an opponent. Zayn has no idea how he does it. 

It’s not atypical for other teams to try and kick Niall out of games. If it weren’t for the threat of bodily harm to someone Zayn’s known since he was 8 years old and thinks of like a brother, Zayn would almost find the whole thing funny. Because when Niall first got called up to the first team, no one really took him seriously. He didn’t have the flash, the blazing speed, the deft trickery that the best strikers have. He didn’t have the Spanish technique, the Brazilian flair, the German efficiency. Their opponents just put a semi-experienced defender on him and kind of forgot about him.

Until he started scoring goals, that is. And kept scoring goals, even when they started throwing their biggest, their fastest, their meanest defenders at him. Zayn could have told them all that they were going to get burned; he’s been training with Niall since they were Under-10s at the Youth Academy, and he learned early on not to underestimate the pale-skinned, blonde-haired kid from Mullingar, Ireland. Whatever Niall supposedly lacks in technique or flair or speed, he makes up for in sheer effort, focus, and power. If he gets a good strike on the ball from 20 yards, Zayn figures you could have two keepers in the net and they wouldn’t be able to stop the shot. 

But the problem is, sometimes the whole kicking Niall out of the game works, at least well enough for some of the mid-table teams to salvage a draw out of the match, and so it’s kind of become the technique of choice. And okay, Zayn has been known to put in a hard hit or two on opponents, put a little extra venom into his tackles, just to warn them, but he never goes in trying to injure them, trying to put them out of the game.

#6 manages to get a couple more clandestine elbows in on Niall during the first half, at least that Zayn sees, and he’d bet a good portion of his weekly wages that there are more that he’s missed. Right before halftime, Niall makes a sweet little cut to the inside with his right foot and puts the ball between #6’s legs. #6 disguises his retaliatory tackle as a mistimed slide, but Zayn sees the way his studs bite hard into the unprotected back of Niall’s calf, and he also sees the momentary wince that crosses Niall’s face as he stumbles and almost falls before steadying himself with one hand on the pitch.

They go into the dressing room 0-0 at halftime. Niall goes straight for the physios when they get back to the dressing room, and Zayn pretends to pay attention to the manager’s instructions while stealing glances in the direction of the physio’s room, where Niall’s getting his ankle wrapped and a quick painkiller spray on the back of his calf. 

“Alright?” Zayn asks when Niall comes back into the main dressing room area, just in time for them to start heading back out for the second half.

“Sound as a pound,” Niall responds with a brief, bright grin, and Zayn pushes affectionately at the back of his head. 

Second half, though, is more of the same. #6 slides through the back of Niall’s knees not three minutes after the start of the half, and Zayn not quite sprints the length of the pitch to get in the ref’s ear about a card. It’s not professional and he knows it, but jesus Christ, he thinks, how many times is that now. 

The yellow card the ref doles out seems to calm things down, at least for a little while, but on 65 minutes, Zayn sees Niall break free on a perfectly timed run in between the Sunderland defense, and chips up a long pass, with just enough back spin to float down right into Niall’s stride. Niall takes the ball onto his foot with an exquisite first touch and turns to make a run on goal. There’s a swell of noise in the grounds, because Niall’s faster than his defender and everyone in the stadium knows it.

And then it turns sharply into a roar of wrath, because Niall’s sprawled out on the pitch again, this time on his back, victim of a two footed, studs up tackle from Sunderland’s #6. Zayn’s already moving, running, but he keeps his eyes on Niall long enough to see him sit up and bring his knees up to rest his elbows on them. He raises a hand at the sideline, telling them to wait for a minute, and then he tucks his head down, like he needs a second or two to get his composure back, and yeah, Zayn is about to get the first red card of his career.

He doesn’t actually punch the Sunderland defender, which he thinks demonstrates remarkable self control on his part. He does, however, get his fists bunched in the fabric of the white and blue strip and shoves the guy—hard. They’re about the same height and the Sunderland player isn’t that much older than Zayn, but up close and personal, his gray eyes are sharp and malevolent. 

“What’re you gonna do, Paki?” he sneers, shoving Zayn back, and there are so many things Zayn could say back, so many things he could do in response, but his teammates are there now, pulling him back, prying his fists out of his opponent’s jersey, telling him it’s not worth it, and he knows, rationally, that it’s not.

“Learn how to fucking play football,” is all he says before letting go and allowing his teammates to pull him away. Niall is on his feet now, standing off on the sideline, and he catches Zayn’s eye, but his expression is unreadable. Zayn doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he just turns and heads for the dressing room, doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the red card as it’s raised in his direction. 

-

It’s late that night when the knock comes on the front door of Zayn’s flat, almost eleven, but Zayn is too amped up from the match still to even think about sleeping. The TV’s on low, playing highlights from some of the League One games, and Zayn’s got a beer in one hand, which he knows the manager would kill him for, but they don’t have training tomorrow and it’s not like he’ll be playing in any matches for the next couple weeks either. 

It also helps him not think—too much—about a certain blonde-haired Irish striker sitting at home somewhere else in the city, limping around his house alone, nursing a body full of bruises. 

He doesn’t really know who he’s expecting to be on the other side of the door when he opens it—a neighbor maybe, or one of his sisters, surprising him with a visit.

He’s definitely not expecting it to be Niall. He’s in sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, even more dressed down than Zayn is, and he looks tired, which, given the fact that he just got kicked across the pitch for 90 minutes, isn’t particularly surprising.

“Hey,” Zayn says, “Are you—what’s up?” He’s totally thrown off balance by Niall’s appearance, so he tries for humorous, flippant. “You out of food or something at yours?” 

Niall shakes his head a little and steps briskly over the threshold, not quite pushing past Zayn. His face is calm, but there’s tension radiating off him, and Zayn quietly closes the door, follows Niall into the living room.

“What’s up?” he repeats, but this time there’s nothing flippant about it. Niall crosses his arms over his chest and darts his eyes around the room, looking uncharacteristically uncertain for a second before he settles his gaze back on Zayn’s. 

“That was stupid,” he says. Zayn narrows his eyes a little.

“What was stupid?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows the answer already.

“Getting in a fight with a guy who was already on a yellow,” Niall points out, like it’s obvious, which, okay, it is.

“He needed to get taken down a peg or two,” Zayn replies.

“He was going to get tossed for that tackle,” Niall says, voice rising a little, “He was on his way out. But instead of getting a man advantage, we went down to ten men too because you had to go and put your hands up.”

“He could have broken your legs,” Zayn snaps, “Or your ribs. He didn’t seem picky about where he hit you.”

Niall straightens almost imperceptibly at that, and Zayn knows what’s coming next, because Niall is nothing if not self-sufficient.

“I don’t need you to stand up for me,” Niall says, “I don’t need you to ‘protect’ me from the big bad defenders. I can fucking take care of myself.” 

His voice is like ice, and truly, Zayn probably deserves that, because he’s known Niall for far too long to be able to excuse his actions as well-intentioned misunderstanding. 

At the same time, though, he’s kind of fed up, because it’s been literally years that he’s stood by and watched opponents try and kick Niall out of games, break his ankles or his ribs or his nose, restraining himself because he knows Niall doesn’t need protection, by him or by anyone else. And the one time he loses control and stands up for his teammate, his best friend, Niall doesn’t trust him enough to realize that maybe his reaction has nothing to do with thinking that Niall can’t take care of himself. 

“I didn’t do it because I thought you needed to be protected or saved or whatever,” Zayn replies wearily, “I’ve known you since you were 8, I know you can take care of yourself.” 

It’s as close as he’s willing to go to giving up his entire game, and he doesn’t know if Niall will figure it out, but he kind of doesn’t care at this point. Five years of coming to terms with the fact that he was in love with his best friend and another two years accepting that it would never amount to anything is more than enough time to induce resignation. 

He turns to go to the kitchen, make tea or something, just to have something to do, but halfway there, Niall grabs his arm to stop him. 

“Then why did you do it?”

Zayn can see him, just in the side of his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t turn to look. Game over, Malik, he thinks to himself.

“Jesus, Niall,” he says quietly, staring hard at the doorway to the kitchen, “Why do you think?”

He steps away again, and Niall doesn’t try to stop him. He goes to put the kettle on, rummages through the cabinets for some tea and a mug, all the while waiting for the sound of the front door closing behind Niall as he leaves. 

Footsteps sound behind him as he’s fumbling with an unopened box of tea.

“Do you want tea?” he asks without turning around, almost a mockery of normal politeness after what’s just transpired, but he doesn’t know what else to say. 

The footsteps shuffle closer, and then there’s a hand on his hip. He eases away instinctively. 

“Zayn.” Niall sounds as uncertain as Zayn’s ever heard him. 

Zayn shrugs, fumbles some more with the box, hoping that the right words to defuse this ridiculous situation will somehow miraculously come to him.

Then the hand on his hip is back, and there’s an arm sliding around his waist, holding him in place, and Niall’s chest is a warm, solid curve against his back. He feels Niall rest his forehead against the back of his neck and huff out a breath.

“…I didn’t know…” Niall mumbles after a second or two. Zayn is tense, frozen in place, because he doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t know if it’s an apology, or a goodbye, or what. 

“…But I guess you didn’t know either,” he concludes. 

The brush of Niall’s lips against the nape of his neck is so faint that Zayn almost wonders if he’s imagined it. But when he turns around, Niall doesn’t back away, and outside of tackles in training and quick goal celebrations in matches, it’s the closest Zayn’s been—or allowed himself to be—to Niall in months, if not years. 

They stand there for a long moment, just breathing together. Zayn reaches out and tentatively presses a hand to Niall’s side, testing out how it feels, wondering if that’s where the bruises are. He looks back at Niall’s face, and gets a little smile in return. 

“So, no more fighting, yeah?” Niall says, bringing one hand up to rest in the curve of Zayn’s shoulder, thumb stroking over his collarbone, comfortably intimate. This is really happening, Zayn thinks to himself, this isn’t just some incredibly realistic daydream.

“No promises,” he responds honestly, “Some guys, you know they don’t understand anything except a little knuckle-dragging. Sometimes it’s worth it.”

“I can fight my own fights,” Niall says matter of factly.

“I know,” Zayn replies, “I’m just saying that. When you need someone else in your corner, I’ll be there."

“With brass knuckles and boxing gloves, no doubt,” Niall teases gently.

“Of course,” Zayn responds with a grin.

They lapse into silence for a moment.

“Hey,” Niall says quietly, “I’m going to kiss you now, alright?”

Zayn nods.

Niall kisses him.

And Zayn, after an agonizingly long moment where he waits for the powers that be to wake him up and laugh at him, Zayn kisses him back.


End file.
